Ordinary Boy
by alwaysflying
Summary: In an extremely conservative kingdom by the name of Aveb, there is a prince called Roger with a few choice ideas about the world. AU.
1. Prologue

This is the kingdom of Aveb.

There is no emerald green sign that says "Welcome to Aveb" or a meticulously-painted arrow directing travelers to the palace. There are no sets of hastily-scrawled instructions on visitors' hands or arms. In Aveb, there is no need for any of those things. Our palace is set high upon a hill, so high and intimidating that one would need to be dead ten years before there is even a shadow of doubt as to what the castle is.

It isn't that the palace is exceptionally big, as palaces go. It is enormous, of course, but no bigger than your ordinary palace. What makes it look so huge is the fact that dotting the landscape of Aveb is a long line of tiny huts, the cottages in which villagers live, and the wide-open field where the market is. Underneath a particularly leafy tree live the merchants without enough money to afford their rent, nor the legal assistance required to stand up before the king and queen. Aveb's rulers are conservative to such an extent that there is little located to the right of the castle, with everything else awkwardly placed to its left. King Benjamin and Queen Alison do not like to be outdone in their conservative ways, and thus are right-wing rulers physically as well as in their actions.

In every story, there is a tragic hero. Aveb has gone hundreds – no, thousands – of years without one, but every now and then a promising young boy will crop up, eyes sharply attentive to the troubles of his homeland. Usually, it is a lower-class son of a merchant, his goals and expectations for himself far beyond fulfillment. In the end, the boy always fails, usually moving on to another, more liberal land.

However, never before has this unlikely hero been the _prince_.

Perhaps it would be more efficient to begin at the beginning. Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, a seventeen-year-old girl by the name of Alison sat in the palace, gazing out the window longingly, waiting for a prince. Her father would bring home many, many suitors, all either upper-class citizens of Aveb or princes from other, more exotic lands. To each, Alison would be polite as could be, courting them all with the utmost grace and charm. In the end, however, she would decline their marriage proposals, sweeping her long blond hair back in dissatisfaction. "I want someone better," she would proclaim, and return to her window.

A few months shy of her eighteenth birthday, Alison began to lose hope in the men of the world – more specifically, of upper classes. Having always been clever, the young princess made a deal with her father. "If," she proposed, "I can find someone I love, someone of _any _class, you shall hold a tournament." Her bright blue eyes ablaze, Alison continued, "You shall put him through three tasks: courage, loyalty, and charm. Should he fail to impress, I shall marry the suitor of your choice. However, if you find him to be a satisfactory companion for yours truly, Daddy, you must allow me to marry him."

And the king agreed. Little did he know, however, that young Alison already had a man in mind. Every day, she would see a young man leaving his tiny cottage to pick up groceries at the market. His eyes were of a deep brown that Alison adored, his hands scarred from manual labor. Alison pitied the man greatly, but she also knew that she loved him. She loved him from his worn, shabby shoes to his deep brown eyes, her affection unaffected by the fact that the color of the man's skin was several shades darker than her own. Rather than heed her father's wishes for her to stay away from men of such a race, Alison approached the man and made her feelings clear. Although shy and cautious at first, eventually, he began to court her. Before long, the tournament's results proved him to be an acceptable husband for Alison, and the two were married.

A year after the wedding, Alison's father died, and she and her husband Benjamin ascended to the throne. The two were young and deeply infatuated with one another, not so concerned with the welfare of the people. They wanted an ordinary life, but deeply cherished the luxuries of wealth. Still, they tried to live in an ordinary manner. After two years of marriage, Alison and Benny had their first child, a tiny, pale boy with Alison's hair and his deceased grandfather's jade eyes. The boy, named Roger, became the prince of Aveb, looking over the hilltops with his sharp little eyes and surveying the land he would one day rule.

When Roger was three, a lively little boy with manic energy and a deep curiosity about the world, his sister was born. Though she had her mother's skin, the princess Maureen looked very like her father, possessing his dark eyes and calculating stare. Roger peered at his sister from time to time in his early youth, wanting to know who this creature was who dared to invade his space.

The years flew by, Roger's tiny frame growing into that of an unofficial athlete's in his race to grow up. Tall, with short hair unable to distract him from his endeavors, Roger was of such a physique that his father predicted, early on, that his marriage would be no problem whatsoever. However, his body was not all that Roger had for others to envy. His lifestyle, his sense of adventure, and his ability to follow his goals were all traits easily applicable to the prince.

At six, Roger made his first trip to the marketplace, admiring the stands and asking his father in a calm voice exactly why the merchants weren't as clean as he and his family were. King Benjamin had no reply, leaving Roger to wonder until his distraction flew him to another topic. At eight, the boy took to singing in the courtyard, creating games of make-believe with Maureen in which he was a lower-class boy, his sister a princess, and the two of them were deeply infatuated with one another. Their fantasy world, surprisingly, was _not _based upon tales of their parents' courtship; in fact, the king and queen never dared to share the details of their early history with their children. Therefore, the background of Roger and Maureen's make-believe merely sprung from their own imaginations and creativity. However, their ideas matched the king and queen's early romance so perfectly that, upon first witnessing the game, Roger's father immediately confronted his wife, asking, "Did _you _tell them?"

When Roger was ten, he saw from his bedroom window a ship docking at the pier. In his haste to leave the house, Roger leapt from the castle to go to the docks of the river, wanting to know what was going on. He discovered, much to his horror, that the boat contained a shipment of slaves for Roger's very own home. Maintaining the pretense of calm that he always had observed his father upholding, Roger calmly browsed through the terrified individuals to lay a hand on one's shoulders, proclaiming, "This one's mine." Although the officials stationed on and around the ship had no idea what to do with the boy, King Benjamin's familiar voice sounded from behind Roger, declaring that, well, if the boy wanted his very own slave, a responsibility, why not? Thanking his father, Roger took the young man from his chains and escorted him home.

"What's your name?" Roger asked upon reaching the palace, taking the teenage boy to be fitted for a slave's uniform.

"Tom," the boy replied. "Tom Collins." When Roger asked how old he was, the slave answered, "Fourteen." Spoiled though he was, Roger sighed in distaste. Although not aware of the specifics of slavery, Roger knew full well that there was something to be said about a boy – a boy but four years older than the prince himself – already carrying out others' orders with no chance of having his own life to live. Sympathetic and deeply disturbed, Roger carried on in his mask of calm, issuing certain tasks to Tom that would soon become the slave's daily schedule. When he told the boy where to sleep, Tom turned to go. Roger, however, called him back.

"Can we be friends?" he asked shyly.

And friends they did become.

Come morning, Maureen discovered Roger's new acquisition. Jealousy flared up inside her, and the seven-year-old demanded compensation. Although exasperated, King Benjamin offered Maureen a slave of her own, or as he eloquently put it, a "personal attendant." Maureen accepted the offer and looked up and down the rows of slaves, finally pointing to one. "I want this one," she declared loudly, and inquired sweetly, "What's your name?"

"Angel," the child whispered. He was tiny, almost as small as Maureen herself, and was soon discovered to be only nine years old. Maureen, not understanding slavery half as well as the undereducated Roger did, became Angel's friend in an instant, delightedly dragging her "new brother" around the palace excitedly. After several weeks, Maureen announced that Angel was a girl's name, and the slave shrugged and said he could be whatever Maureen wanted as long as he didn't have to play pretend _all _the time. Maureen agreed.

So the siblings and their new friends became a common sight around the palace, flying through the wings like a balled-up rainbow hurtling through the sky. In an unheard-of move in young monarchs-to-be, Roger and Maureen took at an early age to socializing with those of a lower social standing than them. By the time Maureen was eleven and Roger fourteen, an extremely detailed mental code of respect was established between the heirs to the throne and those of a lower class. Rumors flew around Aveb, people asking if maybe Roger would become a better, kinder, more fair king than those before him. Terrified as were many people to get their hopes up, it seemed that at last, a truly kind king was on his way to the throne.

In his early teenage years, Roger would regularly travel to the marketplace, "Collins" leading his master's horse without a word of objection. (Truth be told, if ever Collins objected to a certain order, Roger would simply suck it up and do his own work.) While traveling along the road to the market, Roger would encounter villagers and swiftly think back to his father's early teachings about how to handle such individuals – forcefully, powerfully, making it clear who had the higher standing. Roger, however, never bothered to do such a thing. Both he and his sister had a deep appreciation for those living in harsher conditions than they did, and would respectfully acknowledge their subjects by greeting them pleasantly and wishing them a fine day, even occasionally taking the time to ask them about their lives and families. In return, Roger was treated with the utmost respect, receiving, if not bows, certainly adoring glances – mostly from the young girls in the marketplace.

One day, Roger, Collins, Maureen and Angel embarked on a playful journey to the docks, hoping to find an unattended boat that could be hijacked and stolen – by them, of course. (The two siblings and their slaves, who were more their friends than, well, their _property_, swiftly became notorious troublemakers in Aveb, and were appreciated for their ability to find humor in anything and everything. Although King Benny would never display his amusement in his children's behavior, the truth was that he knew just how rare true entertainment was in the days of war, and would allow Roger and Maureen to mostly avoid all punishment.)

On this particular journey, instead of discovering a boat that could be taken out for a trip, Maureen's sharp eyes detected a ship heading for the docks. The four children sat and waited, eager to know what was coming to Aveb.

It was, as it turned out, a ship containing many slaves, as was the norm for Saturday afternoons. While Collins and Angel shied away from the ship due to, of course, previous experiences and a lingering fear, Roger stepped forward to investigate. He had long since perfected the art of checking a ship captain's license to transport slaves, and did so. Upon verifying that all was in order, Roger swiftly walked onto the deck of the ship, browsing the slaves that would soon be brought to auction.

While most of the people were of dark skin and cold glares, there was a single body that Roger found to be out of place. In a corner was a tiny boy, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried between his knees. His body shaking with either terror or tears, the boy was rocking from side to side, obviously very afraid. Struck by pity, Roger laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and the boy jerked back in panic, his head smashing into the wall. Tears fell from his eyes down his face, and Roger could not help but wipe one away with his thumb. "I'm keeping this one," he announced loudly, and without another word, scooped the tiny boy into his arms.

The boy began to flail around wildly, but as Roger stroked his back reassuringly, the slave-to-be quieted. "Hey, shhh," Roger said softly. "It's okay. It's okay. You're safe, I promise." He allowed the boy to shift in such a way that his chest was pressing against Roger's, his heels locking against the small of the other boy's back. "I'm Roger," the prince told the younger child. "What's your name?"

"M-Mark," the boy replied, and his blue eyes fluttered open and looked upward to meet Roger's eyes. "I… I'm scared," he confessed, and Roger nodded in empathy.

"I know," he said. "It's okay. It's okay. Don't worry. You're gonna be fine, okay? I'm going to take you home and get you cleaned up."

"Okay," Mark whispered, and without thinking, wrapped his arms around the back of Roger's neck as he was escorted off the ship, onto Roger's horse, and back to the palace.

"You're going to be fine," Roger whispered to Mark again and again, caressing the boy's bare back and shoulders. "You're going to be fine."

After a time, Mark began to nod in acceptance of this fact, that he was going to be fine. Upon reaching the palace, Roger gently carried Mark to the healer, letting the many wounds on the boy's back be swiftly removed. Mark looked up at Roger with wide eyes, unable to comprehend that this was being done for him, and immediately developed a liking for the boy that truthfully became his caretaker more than, heavens forbid, his master. Though officially Roger's slave, Mark really became Roger's charge over the next few weeks, taken to be outfitted and nursed to health.

On the twenty-first day after Roger brought Mark home, all necessary clothing had been purchased, all wounds healed, and emotional scars, of course, left untouched. However, that aside, Mark developed a loving affection for Roger, admiring him greatly and possessing a swift motivation to do anything the prince asked. His duties at last were outlined and put into place, his schedule created. "Okay," Roger told the young slave. "Here's what you're going to have to do for me." Rather than looking puzzled or offended, as Collins did on his first day of slavery, Mark drew his head up to meet Roger's eyes and nodded in acceptance.

Mark's first morning as an official slave involved many tasks etched in ink on his palms. The first was to help Angel tidy Maureen's suite. Expecting the worst, Mark journeyed to the east wing of the palace and located Maureen's set of rooms, painted a blinding pink. "Hi," he said softly. "Um, I'm supposed to help with this…?"

"Yep," said a cheerful voice on the other side of the door, and Mark entered.

Angel turned to face her new semi-assistant, but upon meeting Mark's eyes, his body at last unscarred and normal, he gasped. "Mark?"

"Angel?"

The two former best friends, children who had enjoyed a deep friendship in their homeland, reunited with a hug and a resigned gesture towards their cleaning implements.


	2. I: Meeting

It is now about an hour since the reunion of Angel and Mark. Already, they are back in the routine of their childhoods.

As the friends, delighted to be in one another's presence once again, clean and whistle as they do so, there is a familiar sound from the hallway. Footsteps. Mark immediately closes his mouth, knowing all too well the consequences of one who is distracted from one's assigned task, but Angel laughs and pats him on the shoulder. "Relax," he tells Mark comfortingly. "It's probably just Roger."

Mark shivers. "Is he…"

"He's your master," Angel tells him gently. "Yours and Collins'. Collins… he's my friend. He works here too."

With a nod, Mark scoops something vile-looking off the floor. "Um… his sister is the one whose room we're cleaning now, right? He's… the prince?"

"Who? Collins?" Angel asks, slightly caught up in thoughts of his friend. Then he quickly snaps out of it and nods. "Oh. _Roger_. Yeah, he's the prince."

Mark considers this. "That means he can do anything he wants to me?" he asks quietly.

"Oh, honey," says Angel, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Who did you _have_ before?"

"What do you mean?" Mark asks cautiously.

Angel sighs. "You had… a bad master before, didn't you, Mark?"

Mark does not reply, but Angel already knows the answer. He wraps his arms around his friend. "Look, Roger is… different."

The other boy only nods.

"I mean it," Angel emphasizes, voice slightly stronger now. He releases Mark from the embrace and takes several steps back. "He's… you can go to him with anything, you know? He's friendly. Treats me and Collins like we're his equals."

"No way," Mark says, shaking his head in denial.

"Yes way," Angel continues. "He… we're his pals. I mean, he and Maureen tell us what to do, sure, but… like, if we say no, they don't push it. We're like friends, only…"

Mark understands now. "Only you can't _not _be friends."

"Right," says Angel. "If Maureen's annoying me, I can't just walk away. I have to stay and clean. Or if Roger's tickling me and it's driving me _crazy_, I can't tell him to stop. It would be…"

"Disrespectful."

Angel nods. "Yeah."

"Upsides and downsides, then," Mark says decisively. At Angel's quizzical look, Mark expands, "Well, you said you can trust them?"

"With my life," Angel says, sounding absolutely sure. "To be honest, there's only a few people in this castle you _can't _trust."

Mark raises an eyebrow, an act he had perfected somewhere around age three. "Who?" he asks. "I need to be on the lookout, right?"

"Right," Angel laughs. "Well… the king's mostly all right, and Her Highness is nice and all, but she's been known to resell." He spits out the last word like it is poison.

"Resell?" Mark echoes.

Angel nods. "Yeah. It means… well, it's when she takes a slave to auction 'cause she wants to make more money than she spent on 'em. That's kind of all she cares about. Money's… her strongest suit, I guess." Conspiratorially, Angel adds, "I know certain people who call her Queen Muffy."

Mark laughs. "Who?"

"Can't tell," Angel says with a wink. "And… oh, yeah, there's someone else you should know about."

"Who?"

Angel sets his cleaning instrument aside and sits cross-legged on the bed. "Come sit," he offers, and waves Mark up onto the mattress. Mark cautiously follows suit and sits, legs dangling off the side awkwardly. "Okay. So… there's this girl, right?"

"Do you have a _crush_?" Mark teases.

"Ew. A girl? No, thank you," Angel says daintily. In the pair's homeland of _Viyage_, the nation just to the east of Aveb, it is not uncommon to see people of the same gender holding hands or kissing. While this is far from the norm in Aveb, Mark has grown up seeing it as common practice, and shrugs. _Cool. You're different. Wish I was_.

With a loud sigh as he continues his speech, Angel continues, "Yeah. There's a girl. Her name's… I actually don't know her name," he admits. "She's a princess, and she and Roger are… betrothed. That means – "

"I know what it means, Angel," Mark says gently.

Angel grins. "Good. Well, I've only met her once, but she's… she's a slut. Do you know what _that _means?" At Mark's chuckling nod, Angel exhales deeply. "Well, yeah. She dances around in these short tunics and has her hair down to _here_." Angel indicates his bottom. "Oh, and – you'll love this – she seems to think that eleven is an appropriate age to begin making plans for their wedding."

"_Eleven_?" repeats Mark in astonishment.

"I know, right?" exclaims Angel. "How old are you now, by the way?"

"Ten," Mark replies, but he sounds vaguely unsure. "Um… I think."

Angel lays a hand on Mark's bare knee. "How long were you… out of Viyage?"

Mark stares at his feet. "You left when I was seven," he reminds his friend. "I left… a month later. They took me, Mom, Dad and Cindy."

"And have you… seen them?"

"No," Mark says. His voice is thick, as though choking back the sadness bound to infiltrate his tone soon enough. "Dad was with me for a little while, on our boat, but then I got sold, and he… I didn't see him after that." He sighs. "You?"

Angel shakes his head. "Haven't seen my parents since I left," he says, and his shoulders fall loosely, a long lock of hair falling in his face. He raises a hand to touch it. "See? I used to have short hair. Haven't cut it since I left."

"_God_, Angel," Mark sighs. "We're… really messed up."

Angel shrugs. "Not so bad. Hell, I know someone who's a lot worse. Hey, you'd probably like him."

Mark looks up. "_Please _don't let him be a horse or something," he mumbles.

"Very funny, Mister Smart-Aleck," Angel shoots back. "No, he's… he's Collins. I think you'd like him."

The younger boy nods and sits in silence for something. Angel opens his mouth, presumably to ask Mark what is on his mind, but Mark beats him to it. "Is… he the one you love?"

"Is it that obvious?" Angel asks, sounding as though he doesn't mind at all.

"Yeah," Mark says, but shrugs. "No big deal, though. I mean… good for you, that you have someone to love." Mark sounds so utterly awkward and bewildered that Angel can immediately tell how long it has been since Mark has had a true conversation, real human contact. It is enough to evoke the deepest sympathies in the older boy, but before he can start fumbling for words that would make Mark feel better, there is another tiny inquiry from the younger slave. "Um… does he… does he hit?"

"Collins?" Angel asks, deeply offended. "Come on, Mark, you know me, would I like someone like that?"

Mark shakes his head emphatically. "No… Roger."

"You still thinking about him?" Angel asks pityingly. "Oh, Mark… no, he doesn't hit."

The relieved slump of Mark's shoulders is visible even to Angel as he leaps off the bed and calls, "Collins!" as loudly as he possibly can. When Collins appears a minute later, the introductions are made. While Mark shudders in the face of the friendly pat on the back Collins administers and winces at the teasing remarks criticizing the pair's cleaning job, the older boy actually manages to make Mark smile with some playful joke.

It is not until years later that Mark can call the exact remark to mind, but for now, the fact that Collins said _something _entertaining is enough. He is almost relieved enough to thank the other boy, but decides against it.

"Hey," says Collins in thought. "You're gonna be sharing a room with me."

"We have a _room_?" Mark asks, puzzled.

"Nah, we get the floor of one of Roger's," Collins admits. "But hey, it's pretty comfy. I mean, Prince Roger has to put his delicate little _feet _on the floor, so it better be good."

"Hey!" yells an unfamiliar voice, and the highly energetic prince slips into the room. "Hey, guys," he says cheerfully, not hesitating to flick Collins' shoulder for the insulting remark. "Oh. Hi, Mark."

But the younger boy barely says a word, his eyes wider than tomatoes and mouth open ever so slightly. "You're the prince?" he asks quietly.

"I've only been taking care of you for _three weeks_," Roger exclaims in mock-hurt.

"I'm sorry," mumbles Mark. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Roger grins. "I was _teasing_," he tells the boy. "No prob, you didn't see me. I was mainly fixing your scars and stuff, back when you were unconscious."

"Oh," Mark says, and he appears to have nothing else to say. _Fixing my scars_? he thinks to himself, baffled. _…So he can make more? _

"I'm gonna go get lunch," says Roger, and without so much as offering his friends meals, he exits as quickly as he arrived.

"Angel?" Mark asks as quietly as he can manage. Without waiting for a response, Mark whispers, "I know why you like boys."

"But he scares you," Angel points out.

Mark nods. "Scares me like hell," he admits. "But god, is he gorgeous."

Collins laughs. "I'm gonna get back to cleaning Roger's suite, then," he says hastily, and exits.

"Angel?" Mark asks in a tiny voice once Collins has vacated the room.

"Yeah?" Angel replies absently, busy staring at a piece of art on Maureen's wall.

"Does Roger…?" Mark begins, then shakes his head. "Never mind."

Angel sits down on the bed beside Mark. "No," he whispers. "He doesn't."

"So why am I scared of him?"

With a loud sigh, Angel comforts Mark, "Maybe you're not."

"Maybe I'm not," Mark echoes.

"Maybe," Angel proposes delicately, "you just think you should be."


	3. II: Confrontation

Something that many people do not know is that while on one's knees, scrubbing fiercely at the marble floor, one can discover many interesting facts about oneself.

For example, Mark is bewildered to note that he is actually diligent when it comes to his attempts to remove an old stain from Roger's floor. While cleaning has never really appealed to him – at all – it seems almost natural that he should be so careful in cleaning Roger's floor, because, well, Mark cares about Roger. Not in the sense that he _loves _him or anything – never! – but certainly that Mark has a pitiful little crush on his master, and he wants Roger to be happy. He accepts this. It's not that it hasn't happened before.

But no. No. He won't think about that. Won't think about what happened last time. He's here now. He has Angel now. Angel will protect him.

Unless… unless Angel's used to it now.

Mark's fingers slow in their meticulous scrubbing of the floor. His head bent towards the ground, he closes his eyes for a long moment. He hurriedly urges himself, _keep moving_. As long as he keeps moving, keeps cleaning, behaves, then there will be no need for punishment. Right? Roger will know how good he's being.

He takes a deep breath and continues rubbing the sponge over the floor.

"Hey… uh, Mark?"

Mark, startled, drops the sponge and spins around. His eyes are huge as he meets Roger's eyes – well, crotch, considering his current position on his knees on the floor – and he hastily stammers, "Was I supposed to be done by now? I'm sorry, I just, I just didn't – "

Roger, taken aback, chuckles. "Wow," he says. "Spaz much? Nah, you don't have to be done by now, but I'll watch, I guess." He plops down on his bed and watches as Mark awkwardly continues scrubbing the floor, his nails on one hand digging into the cracks between tiles while his other hand scrapes the sponge against the tiles.

"You look like you're trying to, you know, crush the tiles," Roger observes.

Mark blushes. "Sorry," he mumbles, his real thoughts being: _I wish I could disappear_. He can't help but think that the tiles would be cleaner that way anyway, without his grimy knees digging into them. It hasn't really been that long since Roger had him cleaned up and bathed, but Mark was unconscious then, and he's done so much work since.

Roger laughs. "No, no, it's fine," he assures Mark. "Collins is never that thorough."

"So why do you keep him?" Mark asks softly, not asking because he expects an answer (masters talk when they want to, he's learned, and not at the whim of some slave), but because it comforts him to hear his own voice.

Startled, Roger replies, "Collins is my _friend_." He gives Mark a strange look, wanting to know why he asked that, calling him stupid for not having noticed already.

Again, Mark blushes and apologizes. Internally, he is baffled. Never in his life has he encountered a master who was _friends _with a slave. The very idea – preposterous. But Roger, smooth and suave and cool, seems to have no problem with it. Mark wonders what this friendship entails. Maybe it's the kind of friendship where the slave craves his master's attention, and the master only returns the affection with a few words and jokes the slave doesn't even understand anyway.

Mark knows _that _kind of relationship. But friendship? What he has with Angel?

He could never have that with Roger. He would want to, of course… but he can't. It would never work. Roger would just turn mean and hit him and whatever else he wants to do, and… Mark wouldn't be able to be like an equal, be able to say stop and mean it, and have Roger oblige.

But it's stupid to even think about it, because it would never happen.

"Hey, aren't you hungry?" Roger asks lightly, and for the first time Mark realizes that Roger is eating something. It smells delicious. Like meat. It probably is, Mark reminds himself. Just because slaves never get good, nourishing food like that doesn't mean that everyone else has to avoid it.

Mark does not move from his spot. "The hunger passes," he mumbles, and regrets it. He knows he should have said something else, something like "no, sir, I don't need food" or something like that. But Mark always forgets the "sir," and now he sounds needy, like he wants food, like he needs it. He doesn't need it.

"If you want food, I could get you some," Roger offers, but Mark shakes his head vehemently. That's the last thing he needs, to be in perpetual debt to his master over something stupid like a sandwich. Then again, it might be a real meal.

_What am I **thinking **about? Slaves don't get real meals_, Mark admonishes himself. He scrunches up his face as he tries to remove some sort of stain from the floor, trying to forget all his troubles in favor of concentrating on _this _one.

Roger shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, and shifts, thus ruining the perfect arrangement of his blankets and pillows. Mark winces. He'll have to do it again now, and once Roger sees that cause-and-effect scenario, it'll happen again and again.

He hugs his forearms at that thought, dropping the sponge onto the floor. Roger sees this and, baffling the slave, leaps off the bed and kneels down beside him. "What's wrong?" he asks in a low voice, his hands on Mark's shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Mark's eyes widen. A _master _comforting his _slave_?

"Y…yes, sir," he stammers, so focused on his position that he remembers the "sir" this time.

Roger sighs. "Well, I think you need something to eat," he says, "so come on, we're going to get something. Get up."

Mark knows an order when he hears one. He gets to his feet, stumbling a bit from what may be hunger, dehydration, exhaustion or perhaps all of them. Roger grabs Mark's hand to steady him.

Mark feels tingles run through his arm and down his spine.

He bows his head and walks the rest of the way wishing fiercely that Roger would just let go of him.

It's not that he doesn't like the touch but, well, he doesn't want it.

Or does he?

"Go," Roger says, indicating the kitchen. He personally has been forbidden by his father to go into the kitchen, which Mark of course knows, and while Roger breaks this rule every chance he gets, Mark doesn't need to know that now. When Mark gives Roger a quizzical look, Roger laughs. "It's the _kitchen_, silly," he tells Mark, and ruffles the boy's hair playfully.

Mark slowly enters, relieved and thankful and somehow tired to be out of Roger's presence at last.

The feeling lasts for about five seconds before he feels a knot in his stomach begin to form.

Does he _miss _Roger? Who has been gone for _five seconds_?

This is getting ridiculous.

But he has orders. Mark takes several steps into the kitchen and bites his lip. "Um, hi," he says quietly to the many workers. "I'm Mark Cohen, I'm… the prince's slave, and he said I should come down here to get food…"


	4. III: Inquiries

Mark nervously looks around the kitchen. He would ordinarily keep his gaze to himself, but here, he is among his own, a slave among many. He tries to memorize faces, to learn the individual burns and scars and scratches on each kitchen worker, but finds that it's too hard – they're all moving, bustling about, hardly surprised to see this tiny new boy here. Only one employee pays Mark the slightest bit of attention: a fiery-haired young girl with bright eyes and scarred hands.

"Hi," she greets him, surveying him curiously. "I'm April Ericcson."

Dutifully, Mark extends a hand to her, but April bats it away. "We're not like that down here," she admonishes him gently. "Oh, you'll see what I mean. We're very informal." Mark nods, because what else is there to do when a strange girl is telling him the ways of life in servants' quarters? He merely nods.

"Well," Mark says carefully, "I work for the prince, and, um, His Highness sent me down here to get food."

April laughs. "For him or for you?" she asks, sounding like she's teasing him. Mark personally does not see what is so funny, but he lets her have her laugh as he considers the question. Sensing that Mark is taking too long, April lays a hand on Mark's shoulder and informs him, "Roger always does that, sending slaves down to get meals when he thinks they're underfed. It's for you. Don't worry."

Before Mark's very eyes, this young girl transforms from an ordinary palace worker who just happens to be in the kitchens into a girl who actually works there. She sweeps her hair behind her eyes and throws on an apron that had been lying on the back of a stool. "I don't usually do favors like this," she warns Mark, "but it's, like, your first day. So what do you want?"

"W-what?" Mark stammers.

April laughs and enunciates, "What do you want?"

"What do I… you mean to eat?" Mark asks, bewildered. April giggles, widening her eyes as she nods, mocking him. Mark sighs. "You don't need to make me anything," he tells her firmly. "I can just – oh, see, there's bread right here." He gestures to a loaf of bread. "See, I'll just take off a little piece, and I'll…"

He stops. April tears off a portion of the bread. Mark holds out his hand, expecting to be given some, but April just laughs again. Humming cheerfully to herself, April dances over to an older servant and delicately bumps into him as she submerges the bread in a bowl of tomato soup set in front of him. "Bread isn't a _meal_, Mark," she informs her companion as she pops the bread in her mouth, savoring the spongey taste. "You have to use it correctly."

Mark looks skeptical, and April just giggles. "You want me to show you something else?" she asks, and rolls up her sleeves.

"April," says the stern man she formerly bumped into. "If you cause any mischief tonight, you know exactly what will happen to you, and I have rescued you enough times – "

"What's happening tonight?" Mark asks in a tiny voice.

April and her elderly companion exchange glances. "Silly," she says delightedly, "didn't you _know_?" When Mark only stares at her, April expands, "Tonight the royal family is dining with the prince's future bride and her family. We have to make only the _best_."

Mark is about to comment that such a request should probably be in effect all the time, but April continues, "_Professor _over here seems to think that this means I can't cause trouble. He just doesn't know – the more trouble, the better the food."

"Professor?" Mark echoes.

April shrieks with laughter. Mark, who has never encountered anyone quite as excitable as her, slowly raises a hand to his ear, checking to see if it is still there. April explains, "I call him Professor because he's always wanted to be one. And he knows everything."

Mark, already having forgotten April's advice, extends a hand to this man. "Mark Cohen," he says. "And you are…?"

"Bernard Collins," the man replies, but does not shake Mark's hand. Mark lets his hang in the air for several moments before, at last, letting it drop limply to his side.

"I know a Collins," Mark comments awkwardly, and looks up at the man to see his and Collins' physical similarities.

The man laughs. "And I have a son. I trust you've met him?"

Mark allows himself to smile. "He's a real charmer."

"That he is, my Tommy-boy," the man agrees. "That he is."

April, pouting for lack of attention, leans over and peers into the pot of soup. Experimental and curious as always, she jabs her thumb inside, wanting to taste it.

The next thing Mark knows, April is sitting upon a counter, her thumb rosy and swollen, itching to be surrounded by the comfort of the inside of her mouth. Instead of indulging in that small luxury, April holds her thumb out to Collins' father. There is a sigh, and an urgent, frantic hiss of displeasure. "April," Collins' father murmurs. "I can't keep doing this, I'll be found out."

April's eyes widen, and she looks around the room fiercely. In an urgent whisper, she insists, "Nobody'll _know_." In a more subdued whimper, she adds, "Please?" She holds out her thumb, throbbing and burnt.

"Oh…" grumbles the older man. "Fine." With a surprising amount of tenderness, he takes April's thumb in his hand and holds it there for several moments, his eyes closed tightly, squeezing her finger so tightly it's turning pale. Mark watches in amazement as, when the man releases April's finger, the burn is gone, and April's finger is practically glowing.

Quiet and frightened, Mark asks, "Was that magic?"

April and Bernard exchange glances.

"Was it?" Mark repeats.

Quickly, April crouches down on the floor before Mark. "Look, Mark, you can keep secrets, right?"

Mark raises his eyebrows. "I'm a slave, April," he says dryly. "Of _course _I can keep secrets."

She laughs hoarsely. "Excellent."

In a low, raspy voice, Collins' father explains to Mark, "I don't know about magic where you come from – probably Viyage, right? – but here, it isn't very common. Maybe one in thirty people have it. It's something that's persecuted. Do you know what that means?" At a shake of Mark's head, he explains, "It means, if I get caught with it, I might be killed."

"Why?"

"Oh, who knows?" cries the liberal scholar. "It's idiotic, but it's our government. Hopefully, your beloved prince does not think in such terms, and we have his father's death to look forward to."

Mark instinctively spins around to check for eavesdroppers, but Collins' father lays a hand on Mark's shoulder and informs him, "Nobody hear likes the king."

"But he might have spies – "

April shrieks with laughter. "King Benny? Please. The only spies he has are in department stores for his wife, checking to see when new dresses are available."

"But – "

"But what?"

Mark chooses his words carefully. "But how does… how do you… why…"

"What's wrong with magic, you mean?" he asks helpfully.

Mark nods.

By way of explanation, Collins' father sits down on the ground, clearing dust and crumbs aside. "Sit with me, Mark," he instructs. Mark does so. "Please understand," he begins, "that people have never been particularly fond of things which they cannot control. The ocean tides are bizarre and fierce, and people attempt to understand them by way of charts and calendars. Animals are random and brutal, and people try to put them in cages to prevent them from doing anyone harm."

Now with his eyes wide and his hands splayed out around his lap, desperate to explain this to Mark (and April as well, who perhaps hasn't heard it enough times already). "Magic is like any of those things, ocean tides or a fierce animal, and the more it is suppressed…"

"The more it'll take over," April supplies.

"Precisely," Collins' father agrees. "Now. Some of us are born with it, such as myself. Others were clearly meant to have it, as it runs in the family, but have for some reason been skipped – like the prince, whose sister is already displaying signs of magic. Still others, however – "

"Wait," Mark interrupts, and blushes for doing so. "Look, I'm sorry, but – if the princess has magic, is she going to be killed?"

Again, April exchanges glances with her father figure. "It's… unlikely," he says at last. "They will hide it and cover it up and stifle it, but in the end, he would not kill his own daughter." Mark nods curtly, and Collins' father continues. "As I was _saying_, still others have been born without magic and grow into it."

"Isn't it genetic?" Mark asks, calling upon something he recalls having heard once.

"Generally, yes, but not always. Sometimes anything will do it – a desperate situation, usually causing magic to be performed once and that's it, or just overexposure to it, which will sometimes give a person the ability to perform magic for the rest of his or her life."

"Well, you just did magic on April, didn't you?" Mark points out. "Couldn't that – "

"Ah," says Collins' father, "but _that _is a whole different realm of magic. That is called Healing, Mark, which is far from the frivolous spell-casting I am referring to in saying 'magic.' Healing is passed on only through blood."

Mark nods, considering, and then inquires, "If you can Heal, why aren't you a Healer?"

"Prisoner of war," he says, waving a hand inconsequentially. "Long story. And I like cooking. I get to learn about chemicals and hear people gossiping. My son is the same way. He can Heal – a bit – and could earn a place at the university if he made his powers known, but he likes his normal life and friends and so forth."

"I see," says Mark, mulling this story over.

And as Collins' father opens his mouth to say something more – what it is, Mark has no idea – there is a swing of doors opening in the front of the room. A small girl enters, no more than eleven, and with her dark curls and lavish clothing, Mark knows immediately who she must be.

The slaves and servants in the room all rise. "Good day, Princess Mimi," says April cheerfully, and the entire room is met with only the girl's pout.

"I want a sandwich," she declares, and so it is done.

As the bread for her lunch is being sliced, Mark snatches some up and dips it into the soup, then slips out of the kitchens. "'Bye," he calls to his new friends, and hastens out of the kitchens and begins his mission to find the prince.


	5. IV: Conversation

Mark hesitantly knocks on the redwood door leading to the prince's suite of rooms. He can't help but feel a cold sense of foreboding, as though knocking would disturb the prince, as though it would lead to a punishment. He cringes. Prince Roger looks much stronger than Mark's last master. It would hurt more. For a moment, Mark considers fleeing, but cements himself in place. _It's my job_, he reminds himself.

"Who is it?" Roger yells, in a tone of forced calm. Mark can hear a distant sound emitting from the cracks beneath Roger's door. Something like… music? But it stops as abruptly as it came, and he convinces himself that he imagined it.

Forcing himself to be loud enough to be heard by Roger, Mark squeaks, "Y-your slave, sir," and then adds more quietly, "Mark."

There is a loud groan, and Roger yells, "Then come in, smarty." Mark blushes and stares at the ground. Shivering, he places his hand on the doorknob and twists it ever-so-slightly to the right, then pushes it open just enough to slip inside. "What do you want?" Roger asks. It isn't quite a demand, but it is obvious that he is impatient.

"I just… wanted to finish cleaning your room, sir," Mark explains in rapidly. "I never got to finish scrubbing the floor because I… went to have lunch." Phrased like that, he realizes, it sounds like it was entirely his own fault. He can't help but mumble, "Sorry."

Roger, Mark sees, is on his bed, leaning against the wall with his feet stretched out in front of him. He looks comfortable in the sense that Mark himself will never be comfortable, if comfort mandates that one is genuinely happy in one's surroundings. "First of all," says Roger lightly, casually, "don't mumble; it's annoying and I can't hear you. Secondly, as long as you're here, you may as well help me with something." He springs off the bed and stands on the floor, and then, in one swift motion, swings his shirt off of his chest and tosses it on the ground.

Within an instant, Mark is on his knees. He grabs the shirt, his hands scrambling to fold it neatly. When it is folded, he rises back up to a standing position, and Roger lays a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down," he says, stretching the words out as though Mark were retarded. "Just calm down. I don't bite."

Mark stares at his feet. Roger thinks he's a freak.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Roger then promises, and Mark twitches. _I've heard that before_, he thinks bitterly, striving to keep his face straight. "Look, I know you've been through a lot lately," Roger continues, "but you just have to lighten up. I don't know where you were before, whose slave you were, but – "

In a voice that is almost a whisper, Mark asks, "Do you want to know?"

_Not really_, Roger's eyes seem to say, and before Mark can take the question back, the prince shrugs. "Go ahead," he says.

"I was, uh, I mean, I belonged to this commoner who lived in Viyage, for a while, and then they shipped me and my family to Gracerm, which was just to the north of us. There, I was owned by the prince, and he was… he was terrible, sir," Mark confesses. "He made me clean the stables, and when he would come check on me before he went riding, he would take the whip they used on the horses, and he would…"

Roger hisses in sympathy. "That's awful," he tells Mark honestly. "That really is. I'm sorry that had to happen to you."

Mark doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent.

At that moment, Roger, standing before Mark in only an undershirt, begins opening and closing various drawers in his armoire. Mark leaps forward. "What do you need, sir?" he asks promptly, his hand on a drawer.

"No, let me get it," Roger says firmly, and peels Mark's fingers off of the drawer handle. "Don't you have stuff to do?"

Suddenly, Mark remembers the half-scrubbed floor. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Yes, sir, I'll just go get the sponge, and I'll…"

"_Mark_," Roger says loudly. Mark turns around. "The floor is clean _enough_. Hell, Collins _never _cleans it."

It is on the tip of Mark's tongue to ask why, then, Collins is still working for Roger. He knows that he himself would _never _neglect to clean the floor, especially not one that gathers dust as easily as Roger's does. "I… Is it okay that I did, sir?" Mark asks quietly, suddenly struck by the thought that maybe Roger didn't _want _it clean.

"Yeah," Roger replies, but it is obvious that he is preoccupied. From one of his drawers, he pulls out a golden shirt with buttons trailing up and down the front. "Does this look okay?" he asks, holding it up in front of his chest.

Mark's breath catches in his throat. _Gods, yes_. "Yes, sir," he says, doing his best to keep the breathiness out of his voice. "It looks… great. With your hair, and all."

Roger raises a hand to touch his blond curls. "Really? Thanks."

In one swift motion, he pulls his undershirt off, hurling it across the room. In the instant between that moment and Mark's snatching the shirt off of the bed to be folded, he catches sight of Roger with no shirt on, and again, he momentarily forgets how to breathe. _He's perfect_, he thinks wildly to himself, and suddenly there is a thumping in his chest. As his fingers flail about to fold the undershirt, Mark yearns to turn back around and catch another glimpse of Roger, but by the time he faces Roger again, the golden shirt is already on him, its buttons hanging loosely open around his otherwise bare chest.

"Sir, should I…?" Mark asks hesitantly, his hand on the hem of Roger's shirt.

Roger shrugs a single shoulder. "Go ahead," he says, and sucks in his stomach as Mark's fingers fly up his chest, buttoning. Mark's hands drop to his sides in record time, Roger's shirt fully buttoned (and, thrilling Mark, tucked into his pants).

"So, how do I look?" Roger asks, walking to face the mirror. "I should probably brush my hair, huh?"

Mark nods eagerly. "Well, not that it doesn't look good, sir – I mean, it does – but you would probably want to make it, you know, neater…"

"Right," Roger replies, and grabs a wooden brush from his desk, whipping it around to hang in front of Mark's face. The younger boy flinches at the sudden movement, and, cringing, takes a step backwards.

Alarmed, Mark regains his balance and takes another two steps closer to Roger, then has the feeling that maybe they're too close. "Did you… want me to brush it for you, sir?"

Chuckling, Roger nods, his eyes wide as though startled at Mark's idiocy. "Yeah."

"Okay." Mark takes the brush in his hands and takes another nervous step to Roger, then suggests carefully, "Sir, do you maybe want to sit down?"

"If I did, don't you think I'd be sitting?" Roger reasons.

Mark flinches. "Yes, sir," he admits quietly, and slowly raises the brush to Roger's scalp. "Tell me if it hurts, okay, sir?"

Roger cackles. "I've fallen off _horses_, lived with Maureen for eleven years, and met the terror that is Princess Mimi," he deadpans. "_You _couldn't hurt me."

Instinctively, Mark bows his head. "I'm sorry, sir," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you; I just wanted to…"

"Just get to it," Roger tells him disgustedly.

Hastily, Mark places the brush in Roger's hair. "Yes, sir," he blurts out, and begins.

The first thing Mark realizes is that Roger's hair is incomprehensibly soft. Not only that, but it is also the kind of hair that catches the light of even the darkest of rooms. Brushing it, Mark does his best to be as gentle as possible, not wanting to catch Roger's temper, but runs his fingers through it occasionally, lightly, so that Roger will hopefully not notice.

"Hey," says Roger after maybe two minutes. "Are you _touching _my hair?"

Mark steps back abruptly. "Yes, sir," he says immediately, "it was, um, it was an accident, sir."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he huffs. "I think you're pretty much done anyway."

Nodding mechanically, Mark takes another few steps backward. "Do you want me to leave now, sir?"

"Nah," Roger replies. "Can you grab me a pair of shoes and a belt, please?"

Suddenly, Roger's clothing is the furthest thing from Mark's mind. It is the second item Roger mentions that catches Mark's attention: the _belt_. He winces. "Y-yes, sir," he stammers, and dives for Roger's armoire, grabs a belt, and, trembling, holds it out to his master. "H-here you go, sir," he whispers.

He tries to recall the last time he was beaten with the belt. It was with the prince of Gracerm, who had loved inflicting pain upon people – particularly Mark, of course. That particular instance had been on Mark's tenth birthday, when he had shyly asked his master if he could maybe have less tasks that day because of the occasion. Enraged, the prince had leapt for his belt, administering a beating so rough that Mark had not recovered until three days later.

"And… the shoes?" Roger asks slowly, as though talking to a particularly dim child.

Mark shivers. What could the prince possibly do with shoes in this situation? Then he considers that Roger could always wear them while walking on Mark's back. Mark's old master had never done that, but then, he had always preferred the more violent punishments, usually those which featured blood.

Swiftly, Mark snatches up a pair of sleek black shoes and hands them to Roger. "Here, sir," he repeats, laying them down at the prince's feet. "Do you want me to put them on for you, sir?"

Roger shrugs. "Sure."

Mark obediently kneels down, holding one of Roger's legs firmly in place while the other one is lifted in the air. Mark guides the shoe over to Roger's foot, stretches the leather enough for it to be comfortable for Roger to put it on, and slips it on. "Is that good, sir?" he asks as Roger plants his foot back on the ground.

"Fine," Roger replies. "You going to tie it?"

"Right, right," Mark murmurs to himself, and sets to work on that. When he is finished, he begins the procedure once more for Roger's other foot.

Slowly, Mark gets back to his feet, looking around the room. "Is there anything else you wanted, sir?" he asks politely, hoping Roger might change his mind about the punishment.

"Yeah," Roger responds. "Can you put the belt on for me?"

Mark's heart flutters. He just wants to _wear _it? "Yes, sir," he replies quickly, and begins lacing the belt through the loops of Roger's pants. "How tight do you want it, sir?"

"The fifth hole," Roger answers swiftly. Mark obeys, buckling the belt, and then stands up again.

There is silence for several more minutes, before at last Roger breaks the silence by asking, "Well, don't you have work to do?"

"Oh!" Mark exclaims, then remembers his work ethics, recalling having finished everything but polishing Roger's floor this morning. "Not that I can think of, sir," he admits quietly.

"Well, that's pretty good," Roger answers, impressed. "Then you can do whatever you want, I guess."

Puzzled, Mark tilts his head. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Well," Roger says, glancing at the window, "I have about an hour before the banquet. So I'm going to teach you what I taught Collins pretty early on. Do you think you can handle it?"

"Yes, sir."

Roger grins, and flops down on his bed. "When you don't have work to do," he says carefully, "you can drop the 'sir' and the manners, forget about your status, and hang out with me."

"…What?" Mark asks, bewildered. "I don't understand."

"Put simply," Roger elaborates, "You're going to be my friend for the next sixty minutes, okay?"

Mark nods. He doesn't think it could possibly work, but maybe, deep down, he hopes.


	6. V: Obligation

Once the curtains have been drawn and the door locked securely, Roger turns to Mark and explains, "I usually bathe around this hour, so they won't think it's suspicious."

"So you aren't going to bathe?" Mark asks, hoping he doesn't sound too impolite.

"Eventually? I might," Roger replies, sounding uninterested. "Maybe not. Maybe you can bathe me. I've never asked Collins to, but then, that's out of respect for Collins' sexuality."

Mark tilts his head. "Sir?"

"Collins loves men," Roger tells him bluntly. "So I wouldn't have him bathe me."

"Oh…" Mark trails off. Is it bad to love men? Would Roger punish Mark if he made it known to him that _he_, Mark, loves men?

Roger is clearly unaware of Mark's thoughts. "Well, Collins loves someone else anyway," he adds. "You've met Angel. You didn't notice the way they act around each other?"

"No," Mark answers, a little too quickly, a little too readily. "But then, I've never seen the way they act without the other present." He decides not to reveal the fact that he was a friend of Angel back in that other life, that other world, back in Viyage.

The prince nods. "That's fine. So," he says, flopping down on his bed, still in his fancy clothes, "tell me about yourself, Mark. How old are you? Where are you from, originally? What was it like there?"

Mark bites his lower lip. "I don't know. I don't remember when I was born, but I know it was sometime in the summer. And I know how old I was when – " Abruptly, he stops. Right. Roger isn't to know about that. Lamely, he finishes, " – when my friend was first brought to auction, but I don't know what happened to her." _Her_? Where did that come from? Well, saying _him _had seemed out of the question, considering Angel. "And I don't know how old she was or how old she is now."

"I see," drawls the prince, still surveying Mark with those almost patronizing eyes. "But how old do you _think _you are?"

"Ten, maybe," Mark mumbles. "Ten, maybe eleven or twelve. I don't know."

"Well, I'm fourteen," Roger continues. "You're probably somewhere around Maureen's age, maybe a little older. I'd say eleven or twelve."

Mark nods. "As you say it," he utters, quoting an oft-used mantra of slaves.

"Hey," Roger cuts in sharply. "Remember what I said? You're going to drop the slave attitude for the next hour, got that, Mark? Or if it makes you feel better, you're doing what I said, so you're still acting as a slave, just unconventionally. Is that more suitable?"

Mark's eyes flit around the room, searching for something to stare at to distract him from Roger. "I didn't mean to disobey," he mumbles.

"Damn. You're really not used to having friends, are you?"

Staring down at the floor, Mark shakes his head. "It's just – I'm a slave, Highness. There isn't a lot of time for making friends when there's work to be done for one's superiors."

"Well said. Still, it doesn't have to be that way. Collins and Angel are as close as friends can get, and probably closer."

"Still, Highness – and forgive me if I'm crossing a line here – it's almost impossible to live two lives like that, where in one, I'm an obedient piece of property, and in the other, I have a real… world."

Roger nods. "I understand that."

He pauses.

"I feel that way sometimes, too, to tell the truth. I'm a prince. One day I'll be the king. And that scares the living daylights out of me, Mark, you'd better believe it does. Because right now, the only life I want to live is that of an ordinary boy. I want to have fun with my sister and friends. I don't want slaves catering to my every whim. I mean – " he laughs – "sure, it's _nice_ to be treated luxuriously, but if it meant I could live a normal life, I'd throw it away in a heartbeat."

Mark stares. He clearly has no idea what to say.

"Father knows, I believe," Roger continues, now in a slightly more subdued tone of voice. "He… he seems assured he's done something wrong with Maureen and me, because we're both like this. Me more than her, I think, but still. And he doesn't know what to do, because the last thing Aveb needs is a reluctant king. But we need _a _king. I just don't want that to be me." He shrugs, tilting his head to one side. "I'm a teenager. I want to live that kind of life. I don't want to be… polished."

After another momentary pause, Roger demands, "Do you even care?"

Mark quivers, recoiling. "I don't understand…"

Roger slaps his forehead. "Gods. I'm sorry, Mark. I ramble a lot, but you're going to have to learn how to put up with that, okay? Even when we're doing this casual hour thing, you still have to learn to tolerate whatever I do, even if it annoys you. It sounds harsh, but…"

"I understand, sire," Mark murmurs. "You take first priority. I cannot question your authority."

Grimacing, Roger shrugs. "I guess that's one way to put it. It just seems so blunt."

"I live with blunt," Mark shoots back, sounding much more bitter than he intended to. "Sorry."

"Well," Roger says, stretching out on the bed, "it's certainly nothing we should be discussing now. Tell me more about _you_. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

A sad smile forms on Mark's face. "A pai – um, I mean," he interrupts himself quickly, "a slave. I'll always be a slave, sir. I just don't see why you're reminding – "

"Wait," Roger breaks in. "Wait. What were you going to say? A what?"

Mark is silent.

"No, no. Let me rephrase," Roger amends himself. "What would you like to be when you grow up, if you could choose anything in the world? Anything," he adds provocatively.

Not hesitating, Mark murmurs, "A painter."

"A painter!" cries Roger. "Admirable indeed. Do you paint?"

Slowly, Mark straightens his shoulders. "Well… not really. I used to, but now I can't, because I have duties. I remember I used to love it, and my Papa painted too. But now it's more of a dream I don't think I can have again."

"I could give you paints," Roger tells him. "I could."

_That's too much_, Mark thinks to himself. _That's too much. I can't even begin to fathom what you would ask in return. A thousand beatings, a night in your bed… I'd do it all for you anyway, because I'm your slave, but even I couldn't possibly be so helpless as to ask for it. _

"No, thank you, sire," Mark replies, because Roger seems to be awaiting a response.

"Why not?" Roger presses.

Biting his lower lip, Mark struggles to come up with a response. The truth? A fabricated version that will not earn him punishment? It seems that Roger prefers honesty. Still, Mark can't help but dread the feeling of fists on his skin, bloody wounds and gashes from unclean daggers. He grits his teeth. Would Roger do that? Maybe. Probably. Still, if that's what Roger wishes to do, he'll do it anyway. He doesn't need provocation.

"Because… because I don't know what you'll ask for," Mark mumbles.

"One more time?" Roger asks, cupping his ear.

Now blushing furiously, Mark repeats, "Because I'm afraid of what I'd need to do to pay you back."

Roger rises from the bed abruptly. "Mark," he breathes. "What do you think I'm going to _do _to you?"

Mark contorts his face, screwing it up, eyes shut tightly. _I won't tell. He'll get ideas, he'll _do _it. I won't tell_. "I won't tell," he mumbles.

"Tell me," Roger implores him. "Tell me. I'm your master, and I hate to pull this card on you, Mark, but you need to tell me."

Slowly, Mark opens one eye, then the other, and as if removing a bandage, quickly darts his eyes over to the prince. "I… I'm scared of… of beatings, sir. With the whip. And… a belt. And daggers and swords, but those are… infrequent. Or _were _infrequent. My last master…"

Roger gathers the smaller boy into his arms, not even considering the potential consequences. In the embrace, he squeezes Mark's body tightly, holding him the way he might hold Maureen. "Mark, you can't think like that," he whispers, his voice almost cracking. "I sound like a selfish master telling you what you can't do, how you can't think, but it's dangerous. You need to understand… I'm not like that. I'm _not_. You may have been told that before, and you're cautious, but I am not like that. I'm not… that's _repulsive_, Mark. Just because some guy with a sword brought you onto a big ship and sold you like you were a piece of meat, you seem to have it in your head that I can do whatever I want to you."

"You can – "

Sighing, Roger admits, "Well, I can. I'm in a position of utmost power, I confess. But that means I can do anything to you, not that I necessarily have to abuse you. Do you understand?"

Mark slowly nods his head.

"I could treat you well, for all you know. That's what I want to do. I want you to be my friend. I'm not going to _beat _you. Is that all they did to you?"

Hesitantly, Mark almost shakes his head, almost confesses. Then he remembers the way Angel looked at him, pitying him, and Mark instinctively nods his head once more. "Yes, sir."

"Well," Roger says with a long sigh, "I'm not going to do that. Okay?"

"Okay."

Mark's voice wavers.

"Okay," Roger repeats. "Now… I want you to promise me something."

"Anything, sir," Mark blurts out.

Smiling sorrowfully, Roger declares, "You'll treat me like an equal for the next fifty minutes."

Mark pauses.

"_Mark_."

"Yes, sir," he says immediately.

"Drop the _sir_," Roger orders.

"Yes," Mark murmurs.

"What was that?"

Mark smiles, just a bit. "Yes," he says quietly.

"Okay," says Roger, and he collapses on his bed. "Then come up here. Lie next to me, and we can talk about ourselves."

Hesitantly, Mark does.


	7. VI: Understanding

"Closer," Roger says, indicating for Mark to scoot closer to him. Awkwardly, Mark does. Once his body is actually touching Roger's, he lets out the tiniest of whimpers. "Don't be _scared_," Roger tells him, but his voice sounds almost disgusted, which only serves to make Mark more worried.

"I know you're scared, but just calm down," Roger reassures him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not."

Mark nods. "Okay," he whispers.

"Okay," Roger repeats. "Where were you born?"

His voice wavering, Mark says, "Viyage. Western Viyage, where it was – sorry. You don't want to hear about that."

"I do," Roger insists. "Tell me."

"Well," Mark says, "Western Viyage was the farthest part of it from Aveb. We weren't conservative the way people are here. It wasn't uncommon to find two men or two women kissing publicly. And Viyage, well, it wasn't perfect – it wasn't beautiful in that it had all these trees and so much _sun _to look up at. But it was still beautiful. There was color everywhere, paintings and fire shows and the river and the sunset. And at night, we would gather on the roofs of our buildings – we lived in apartments – and stare at the stars. _That _was beautiful."

Roger smiles wistfully. "It sounds amazing."

"It was," Mark agrees eagerly. "An – my best friend – used to just sit on the street and play the harp. People would see her sitting there and give her money. People don't do that here, I guess."

"No, they don't," murmurs the prince. "That's sad, because I would love to see something like that."

Mark laughs. "So would I, Highness," he says, almost conversationally, "but that simply isn't possible. As we speak, the Gracerm army is tearing my homeland to shreds. When I was captured from Viyage, so were thousands of other Viyagians. It is Gracerm's mission to conquer the entire country – for what, I don't know. It's so small a land that most other countries overlook it."

"Oh," says Roger. For all that he is a prince, he knows very little about war. His father always manages to stay neutral – he is neither for or against war, and a time has never come when he was forced to choose to or not to fight. Politics interest the prince, but battle has always seemed a far-off concept to him, something with which he would do well not to concern himself.

The slave shifts in the bed. Quietly, almost to himself, he begins to speak again. "That girl from my village had prophecies. Small things, mostly – when flowers were only buds, she made a game out of identifying what they would grow to look like, and she was always right. But there were big ones, too: she spoke of the day when Gracerm would conquer us long before it actually happened. And once… when she was very young, she told us of a leader, one who would deliver us from times of turmoil. She said that he would be from Aveb."

Roger raises an eyebrow. "Aveb? I don't see anyone particularly interesting in this godforsaken country, Mark."

"_The boy with depths in his eyes_, she said," Mark muses. "_The softest hands and the softest heart_."

"A boy," Roger repeats. "A boy. Collins, perhaps? His eyes are the deepest of anyone's I know, except maybe Angel."

"He's a slave," Mark points out. "He wasn't born here. Besides, his hands are rough from all the work he has to do."

Roger laughs hoarsely. "You should see how little work he actually does and then make that assumption."

"Why don't you make him do work?" Mark asks quietly. "I mean, you've said to me that the two of you are friends, but he's still your inferior. I am too. We're your slaves – your country has captured us – we should have to work."

Roger shakes his head. "I don't believe in that," he says firmly. "I don't believe that anyone should have to work without pay, and I certainly don't believe that just because of my parentage, something's special about me. I do think that there is something that makes me unique, but – not that. I'm not going to take advantage of kids that are just the same as me, except unluckier. It isn't fair."

For a long moment, Mark closes his eyes. "I agree with you, Highness," he says quietly. "I know it probably seems like I don't, but I'm conditioned to act as an inferior."

Roger shifts, sliding his arm around Mark's shoulder, counting the cracks in the ceiling. "And I, for the most part, have been trained to act like a prince."

"Do you?" Mark asks. It's pretty much a toss-up – true, there are times when Roger acts regal and princely, but just as equal are the times when he goes out riding, emerging with his face streaked with mud. Mark has never seen this, but he knows. Angel and Collins speak about the prince as though he were a god, talking of all the amazing things he can do. Riding is his strong suit, they say. Riding and music.

He laughs. "When I want to," he says. "It's not as frequent as you might think."

"No, I can imagine," Mark tells him sleepily.

Something clicks in Mark's mind. A mere five minutes ago, he was shaking with fear of the prince, but now, he feels something beginning to form between them. Friendship? It makes him nervous, because he hasn't had a friend in so long, but still, he can't help but imagine the feeling of being wanted and needed by someone, his presence craved, his secrets known and understood.

A tugging at his heartstrings makes his hoping all the more frantic, and he turns over on his side to face Roger.

Before he can say anything, Roger is talking again, and Mark listens attentively.

"It's been so long since the last time I was able to relax and just talk about things," he says. "Like how I don't want to marry Mimi, and how I feel like my parents like Maureen better, and how I'm scared for her, because as soon as people find out that she has – "

Suddenly, Roger stops.

"Never mind," he mumbles.

Going off on a limb, Mark reviews Roger's last sentence in his head. "_as soon as people find out that she has…_"

Has what?

Magic?

"Magic?" Mark asks quietly.

Sharply, Roger spins around. "How did you know about that?" he demands.

Mark cringes, but answers honestly. "A – a man in the kitchens told me," he says softly. "He said the princess has magic, and that people persecute people with magic here."

Shaking his head, Roger growls, low in his throat. "Was it Bernard?"

"I think so," Mark replies. "He was – he was Collins' father. And there was a girl with him… April."

He idly wonders why he is telling all this to Roger. Slaves and servants usually abide by a strict code of honor, not betraying anyone else's secrets if they can help it. But Mark feels comfortable with Roger, or as close as he could possibly feel to a master, and something tells him that Roger won't punish April or Collins' father for it.

"Yes," Roger says. "Well. They're right, Maureen does have magic. Just a bit."

"He said your father won't let anything happen to her," Mark murmurs in an attempt to be comforting.

Roger laughs hollowly. "That's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried she'll get involved in sorcery. It's happened in all the old books, mostly conservative anti-magic texts – people get sucked into magic, Mark; they get sucked into it and get so wrapped up in the power that they never come out."

"The texts could be warped, to – to say what they want to say – "

The prince shakes his head. "A little girl with so much power is dangerous," he says. "Even if she doesn't get sucked into it herself, as soon as other people find out, they'll want things from her. The magic-oriented cults will want to use her as a poster girl. The ultra-conservatives will want to make an example out of her, to have her killed and pass it off as something caused by magic. The villagers will all ask things of her, throwing guilt trips, saying that as long as she has power, by not helping them, she's being evil. And she's just _twelve_ and she doesn't know what's going on."

"Does she know she has magic?"

Roger bursts out laughing. "She knew before she could _talk_. I don't know how much you know of Maureen at this point, but she is the most self-sure person I know. She knows everything there is to know about herself. Such a curious kid."

"Oh. So… why don't you just explain it to her? Or have Collins' father do it? He explained it pretty well to me…"

"Look, Mark," Roger says, his tone suddenly blunt. "I appreciate your trying to help, but it's really a family issue and I'd appreciate it if you'd just stay out of it."

Mark's eyes fluttered downward. Vaguely, he is aware that he said something wrong, and apologies flow to the top of his mind.

"No," Roger murmurs. Aloud, he says, "I'm sorry."

Mark double-takes. "_What_?"

Looking sheepish, Roger repeats, "I'm sorry. I know how fragile you are right now. I shouldn't've said that to you. I just meant… I was getting angry. I shouldn't've."

"I don't understand."

Roger claps Mark on the shoulder. "It's not a big thing, really. Just… I shouldn't've spoken that way to you, and I apologize."

Mark blushes. "Oh. Okay…"

Roger glances outside, where the sun was just barely beginning to go down. "I have to start getting ready," he remarks. "Do I have time for a bath? – Yeah, I think so. Can you run a bath for me, please, Mark?"

"You don't have to say please," Mark mumbles, still a little embarrassed over receiving an _apology_. "

Roger doesn't hear, just starts stripping down and getting ready for his bath. Mark kneels down beside the tub, running the water.

He is starting to think that there's a routine even here. He spends time with Roger, he can be his equal, but he always has to listen. That's fine. Mark can do that.

Then the water's all ready, and Roger steps inside.

"Here's the soap," Mark says, trying to avert his eyes.

Roger laughs. "I trust you. Go ahead, wash me."

Mark's eyes widen.


End file.
